


yours to bear

by mellerbee



Series: long time running - d/s verse [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Caretaking, Dom/sub, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Sex, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellerbee/pseuds/mellerbee
Summary: There’s no instruction manual on taking care of a team. No guidelines left by your predecessors, no tips on what should be done.Patrice does his best.





	yours to bear

**Author's Note:**

> the tags got to be a bit much but there’s brief references to past abuse, nothing specific or graphic, but a warning nonetheless. 
> 
> i used the word “love” fifteen times, so that may tell you how ridiculously sentimental this is.
> 
> oh, not in tags, but there's a looch cameo. of course there is.

Boston aches, that night.

Hearts cracked wide open, they don’t pick their broken pieces up just yet. Most only watch - salt tears drying on cheeks, hair still soaked in sweat, weighed down by their pads and the crushing presence of the loss. They’ve known pain like this before, a lot of them. Those there in 2013. Johansson, with years of disappointment in Washington in his past. Something about this, though. Something about this is different. 

Harsher, yes. Maybe even worse. But there’s a hint of hope - something that wasn’t there before. A flowing undercurrent of love that knits the room together, stitches them all back up. The cut of uncertainty isn’t there anymore, not pushing out any attempt at consolation. There’s no question that they aren’t there for each other, no question that anyone will be alone. 

They all show their love in different ways. Brad, eyes red and hands shaking, confesses it all openly, lets everyone see his torn and broken, lets everyone hear his love in it’s fullest. Charlie follows in his footsteps, though younger and therefore wilder in his expression, when he cries no one feels ashamed for their own managing. This time, Patrice isn’t strong because he has to be, Backes and Z are stoic behind him. He’s strong for himself, composed exterior glue for his own broken pieces, fitting closer and closer together when he gives his words of reassurance to the room. Though time knocks at him tirelessly, Zdeno gives over his twenty-one years of failures and successes to the room, to the city. They pick each other back up, and are careful not to let each other go.

Spilling out of parents’ condolences and trainers rooms, showers and coaches’ speeches, recovery starts just after midnight. Loading into cars by threes and fours, no one daring to spend the rest of the night alone. Tradition always sticks in times like this.

-

There’s no instruction manual on taking care of a team. No guidelines left by your predecessors, no tips on what should be done. Patrice certainly wasn’t in charge of it, the last time a loss had crashed down this hard. He’s knows he wouldn’t have wanted to be, though. Not without Brad by his side. 

It’s fifteen minutes to home at this time of night. They drive with the windows open, music inaudible over the rush of the city around them. At one point, miracle of miracles, he catches Brad with a smile on his face, gazing out the passenger side window. That’s the moment when he’s pretty goddamn certain that things are going to be alright. 

In their driveway, Patrice leans over the center console and hooks a finger into the D-ring on Brad’s collar, presses a lingering kiss to his lips. Brad melts sweetly into it, as he always does. The list of ‘things better than hockey’ grows longer in the back of Patrice’s mind.

Behind them, several pairs of headlights pull off of the street, into the driveway. Reality hushes them. Yet for the first time all night, it doesn’t hurt. Time ices their bruises and yells encouragement from the stands, and together they gather the will to get out of the car. They aren’t the only ones. Backes and Brandon, eyes red and clutching hands the second they can. Z driving Charlie, Jake, and Connor, the younger guys in no state to be behind the wheel on their own. Coyle and Wagner. Milan with both other Davids, after him having occupied the family suite for the last three rounds. 

When the lights are on and home has settled around them, Patrice gets the chance to check his phone, to a fair bit of messages. He didn’t bother to look after they had filed into the parking lot, but shoots back a few pointers on directions to their house and accepts offers of bringing food. No one wants to be alone. No one deserves a quiet apartment after something like that. 

Someone clears his throat from beside him, “do you want me to get the door?” It’s easy to forget this is only Clifton’s first year, with how composed he carries himself. “Like, you want me to let people in?” Patrice thanks him, and means it.

Brad has those already arrived busy - dragging air mattresses and blankets out of closets, stripping the pillows and sheets from beds. Patrice gives his sub an admonishment for carrying so much with his injured hand, before he, ill-advised, lugs a case of water into the living room. Backes takes the next case from him, and Patrice only looks pointedly at his shoulder before leaving the issue alone. 

The doorbell rings. Torey and Adam are let through the door, John and Marcus trailing close behind them. They each have bags from various take out and fast food places, and Patrice continues to be eternally grateful for Torey Krug on and off the ice.

Once things begin to resemble some semblance of order, he turns his attention to his own sub. Perched on the edge of the couch, having changed into sweatpants and one of Patrice’s t-shirts at some point since they got home. He takes his time to hold him for a long while, worn thin from the long season. Brad trembles when he leaves him with a kiss on his forehead to change out of his own suit, but he isn’t alone long. Adam drags him into the corner of the couch, settling him against him. Patrice can’t help but ruffle their hair, both of them, as he walks past. 

Milan stops him in the hallway back, face pinched with worry. He starts the conversation with an apology. 

“Is everything okay with―” he’s not sure who to ask about first. With Pasta? With Krej? Neither were doing well, the last time he saw them that night. On cue, there’s distinctly Czech shouting from the other room, and Milan freezes in place. 

“Can we stay in the guest room?” He asks, the words not even fully out before Patrice nods. They’ve spent a good deal of time together, over the years. They’ve spent a good deal of losses together. 

In the main room, things have settled down, however slightly. David is sitting with his knees to chest in the center of the floor, ghost white and gripping his collar like a lifeline. He’s tended to be like this, to react like this, as long as Patrice has known him. Choppy in how he processes things, every moment a new and cutting threat. Krej is frozen, shellshocked, eyes wide and unfocused, like he’s unable to process anything at all. 

His attention is split across the room when the doorbell rings again, and another wave of the team shows up. 

Sean and Danton, with Matt and Noel following them, are the last to show up. All carrying several CVS bags. Danton drops his on the kitchen table first, several razors and cans of shaving cream rolling out. “We figured guys might want to get it over with.” They’re snatched up quickly.

They thought tonight was the end, and maybe it was the end of some things. At the same time - it’s the beginning. The beginning of new love, of a newfound family. The beginning of the next chapter.

-

Marcus wasn’t quite sure know how to handle the loss. Didn’t, maybe. He’d lost before. You don’t get here without losing, you don’t make it to twenty-eight in the NHL without losing, and losing a lot. But his first real shot at the Stanley Cup, only to lose like that? Nothing can prepare you then.

He thinks it’s the unpredictability that’s the worst part. Sub stereotype or not, he likes a plan. He likes to know what’s happening next. And as a personal thing, he likes to know how people around him are doing. And a few months with a team doesn’t prepare you to know how they react in a scenario like this. 

Lost and numb, he watched everyone else in the dressing room, trying to find some semblance of direction to follow. He felt a bit like a sheep, following but not knowing where he’s going. Taking steps, going through the motions, sights and sounds just passing through him. Once in a while someone had said something to him, touched a guiding hand to his shoulder. He didn’t know who they were, and he doesn’t know what it means. He just follows, follows, follows.

The distinct gasoline scent of the parking garage snapped him back into the moment, the sounds of cars starting aggressive and sharp in the night. He knew it was Bergeron, in front of him, who pressed a bottle of water into his hand and offers a pained smile. Then muttered conversation above him, the only words he catches “drop” and “home.” 

Then he was being led into the backseat of a car, head foggy and disoriented. It took until they reached clear air that it clicked: subdrop. No sub could avoid it altogether, but Marcus had never been particularly susceptible. Apparently this was how his mind dealt with the adrenaline wearing down. 

Now his head is clearer, back to the world of the functioning, but nothing feels quite  _ right _ . Around him the team settles, curling up on couches and blow-up mattresses in pairs and trios, sharing food and drinks and sharing hushed consolances. Marcus doesn’t remember at all exactly what he was thinking when he got into Krug’s car, but he can guess it wasn’t this. In Jersey, they didn’t go far enough to warrant anything like this. In Washington, he mostly went home with Nicke and Alex, held himself together in the next room over as not to get in their way. Maybe he expected punishment (he surely wasn’t at his best), or simply getting dropped at home (he doubts he was in any shape to drive).

Instead he’s - sitting in a kitchen chair, with his arms around his knees. The room smells like takeout, and Marcus like sweat. No one tries to talk to him for a long while. 

Until Zdeno takes the seat next to him. He’s patient, as he always seems to be, waiting until Marcus looks up to begin talking. Marcus lets him start first, because words, especially English words, are a bit of a struggle at the moment. 

“Have you been holding up ok?” Zee asks him. In Swedish. He asks him in Swedish. It’s enough to shock a smile out of him, however brief. The words are halted, and highly accented, but understandable. Marcus doesn’t get to answer right away, which is good, because he didn’t have one. “Torey told me you dropped.” Zee continues, matter of fact, without an ounce of judgement. 

“I’m holding together,” he tells him, an attempt made at keeping his voice steady. He knows he should make eye contact, but the idea is daunting, and besides. He doesn’t think he would be judged for keeping his eyes down. “I don’t think I’ll cry yet.”

Zee huffs a laugh, tapping fingers on the edge of the table. “Don’t worry about appearances, if that’s why you’re not crying,” his voice was hushed now, more serious. The prospect of crying suddenly seemed much closer. “We’re all at the same place, right now.”

Marcus’ mouth was dry, and he felt too small for the body he held. Still, he managed to ask - “why?” Then cleared his throat, tried again. “Why are we here?”

There was a beat of silence. “You didn’t do this, in D.C.?” 

He shook his head, rather aggressively. Marcus had never even had a dom who took care of him like this, much less a whole team. To the doms he had belonged to before, he was either an afterthought or something to use. He wasn’t used to this sort of attention.

“Patrice and I, we don’t want anyone hurt. It’s good to be around family when...when things are bad,” Zee explains to him, still in Swedish. He stutters over a few words, talks slow, as if he’s trying to make sure nothing is missed. “We put each other back together.”

Marcus isn’t ashamed, but he isn’t exactly proud either. He cries, shaking with it, vision going blurry with tears. He lets himself be held by his captain at the kitchen counter of a teammate’s house, and for a moment the future doesn’t seem so terrifying.

-

_ It’s all too familiar _ , that’s the thought at the forefront of Chris’ mind.  _ Almost _ . His life at this point seems to be made up of almost, of not quite, of “maybe next time.” Almost make the roster. Almost make the playoffs. Almost make the final. Almost win the cup.

You don’t make the NHL if you’re not willing to do everything you’ve got to win. It’s why you play the game you love. (Why you fight, why you break your goddamn arm to block a shot.) That’s the Wagner brand - love, stubbornness, and loyalty to a fault. It’s part of him.

Yet, sometimes he wishes he could rest. Lay down for a moment without wondering what comes next. (Maybe someone heard him, when he was forced to sit out the last two rounds.)

He throws his whole heart into everything he does, and never gets even half as much back in return. Except for with Charlie. Charlie, who he’d loved since seventeen, who had loved him back just as long. No matter how many finals they lost together, he remained something he didn’t  _ almost _ have. 

It had been that way for a long time. There had been doubts. (Doms and switches don’t work well together.) Despite that, Charlie was currently curled against him, silencing any doubts he had left in his own mind.

From beside him, Charlie made a soft, sudden noise of distress, gripping at the sleeve of Chris’ sweatshirt. Contrary to popular belief, Charlie was heartbreakingly fragile, especially now. He hadn’t subbed often in the years they’d been apart, and even with the past few months of scening he was left uneven, exposed. 

“Can’t sleep?” Chris couldn’t stop him from dropping the second the final horn sounded, but he could keep him steady now.

Charlie shook his head, lips moving but no words coming out. He had cried, on the drive over. Left tear stains on the collar and shoulders of Chris’ gameday suit. Probably sobbed his throat raw, as well. His eyes were still wide, searching. 

“It’s not the end.” He had no idea which of them he was really saying it for. He felt half-wild at this hour, something about the pain revealing parts of his heart he hadn’t paid much attention to. 

It made Charlie smile, at least. For the first time that night, a real one. The smile with the crinkles by his eyes, the one Chris loved to see above all else. He grabbed his hand, then, aggressive in its suddenness. “No,” he agreed, shifting so he was lying half on Chris, pressing his shoulder blade against the hardwood floor. Chris couldn’t find it in him to care. “Stuck with me now.”

Chris could already feel his leg falling asleep some time in the future. His heart fluttered with something like love, and he smiled wildly back. “You’re gonna get so sick of me.”

Someone shushed them, somewhere in the room. Charlie kissed him to shut him up. Just, you know, before anyone else could complain. They had the summer. They had more seasons, more playoff runs. Winning wasn’t out of the picture yet.

-

Night is making way for morning when Patrice finally settles down. Having made sure everyone was coping alright, knowing that no one was on their own, knowing the younger guys have had at least  _ something _ to eat. He and Brad - they have their patterns. Brad might be a sub, but he was given an A for a reason, too. Anyone knows getting him to fully settle down will be a futile effort until he’s sure everyone else is alright. Patrice loves him for it, truly, but he’s glad to be the last one in the living room, to see Brad already half asleep on the couch. For nothing else, to have a fairly comfortable place to sleep, with how many of them there are.

They’ve been together a long time. Ten years, soon. A lot of his life is tied up with Brad. (A lot of his life includes Brad tied up. That’s an entirely different matter).

Sitting in the corner of their couch, in their big house in the suburbs, with their team around them, Patrice can see a whole lot that’s worth more than winning the cup. If you had asked him, at twenty, would you give it up? What would you give it up for? He would’ve answered, same as everyone, “nothing.” Brad, curled against him, was the catalyst for all of it.

He’s the tether of Patrice’s memories, holding those snapshots in time. 

Holding them both together, over time. 

“David?” Brad’s hand finds his, knits their fingers together, painfully gentle. His head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes rimmed red still. Patrice is hit with another wave of fondness. “Is he alright?”

“Scared.” He tells him, no point in lying now. They’re all worried about each other, regardless of what he says. 

Brad exhales, loud in the growing quiet of the house. “So am I.” 

Patrice feels him shudder, a barely there thing, pushing closer. 

As if to protect him from the rest of the world, he pulls him tight against him, clutching the back of his shirt. Like if he holds him close enough, nothing will try and get between them.  _ “I know” _ goes unspoken. Brad, with his raucous laughter and careless seeming attitude, knows fear well, so often caught up in his own anxieties. That’s his most honest truth. In his admittance Patrice is harshly reminded Brad at twenty one, of the first time they played together. The way he flinched away from a clap on the shoulder. The times he bit his lips bloody whenever a coach raised his voice to him.

He sees it now, in his wide eyes, his unconscious shivers. The years they’ve taken to get here, the pain of the path. Knows deeply that whatever facade he puts up, he holds everything within him - the articles, the jeers, opponents and reporters alike. God knows what this summer brings.

The fiercest part of Patrice is his love, and there’s a terribly angry part of him willing to burn the NHL to the ground if it meant Brad would sleep soundly that night. He would give anything at all for him, the cup nothing in comparison. That’s a truth he has never tried to hide, yet no one sees anyways.

You wouldn’t know, if you only saw them on the ice. You could never know how their love fits together. Patrice sees it all too clearly now, with the emotions of the night put forward to smolder. How it lingers, the truths they don’t even know they hide.

It’s three in the morning when Patrice starts to let himself cry. Not for their season, how it ended so wrong. Not for lack of knowing what the future holds. He cries not because of heartbreak, but overwhelmed with all that’s around him. The love he’s become surrounded with, the hope for a future at all.

Brad brings both of their hands up to his collar. Tethering them together.

-

The sun rises on twenty something sleeping hockey players - not unusal, but not common either. Stretched out on air mattresses, cramped onto couches, squished into chairs. Two things hang in the New England air: humidity, and love. 

**Author's Note:**

> i’m so sorry this took such a long time, but you KNEW i had to write something. this is indeed the comfort fic i talked about. soft bruins all day every day, baby. is it too emotional? probably. do i care? certainly not.
> 
> tumblr is @mellerbees.


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